


A Trail Of Blood Behind Him

by problematic_maverick



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: (I'm not really), AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Death, Do Not Expect Regular Updates, Flowers, Gen, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Death in Childbirth, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Character Death, Multi, Sadness, Self-Harm, Sort Of, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Well - Freeform, What else is new, You Shall Be Disappointed, a lot of people hate each other, and themselves, but that's canonical so, i damn well hope so, i'm not even sure if this will have a happy ending, implied/referenced suicidal ideation, it's just like real life, it's kinda Selena's fault, let's just blame her, nobody likes Morzan, not really - Freeform, oh the Minor Character Death also applies to Saphira I, really I am, she don't mind, she's dead okay?, so does it really matter, that's Selena she dies anyway, there is one (1) pair of soulmates, this is pretty dark Okay, under unusual circumstances, until Murtagh goes and ruins it, why are there this many tags already, you won't even guess who it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 08:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15905064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematic_maverick/pseuds/problematic_maverick
Summary: The price of his blood is that of others, and if they don’t pay up then he’ll take it from them, measure it out neatly then take his exit while the cut’s still bleeding.It’s only fair.orA pair of brothers are thrust together and torn apart at the same time, in a world which wants them, dead or alive (but preferably dead).





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our story begins with a orange-coloured day and a fiery evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for implied/referenced death in childbirth, minor character death.

“You would dare to take my children from me!”  
“You view Murtagh as a tool! I would save him, and my other child, from that, and the mistreatment they would surely face!”  
Murtagh, at three, was an intelligent child, and he gathered that this woman, his mother, was doing something that his father had not liked. He also knew that this involved him, and that meant it was safer for him to disguise himself behind his mother’s legs. ‘Children should be seen and not heard,’ and ‘Do not get under the grown-ups’ feet,’ that was always what Nurse said, and he was trying.  
His mother and father were still yelling. He rarely saw his father, and barely remembered his mother.  
He was scared. Had his mother done something wrong? Had he done something wrong?  
Morzan turned to him. “Murtagh, come here,” he growled.  
“No! Murtagh, stay with me.”  
The three-year-old was confused. What should he do?  
“Wh-where’s Nurse?” he stuttered. Nurse would know what to do. Nurse always knew what to do.  
His father smiled, but it did not look right on his face. “Nurse is at the castle, Murtagh. Come with me and you shall see Nurse.”  
Murtagh glanced at his mother. She did not protest, and he took that as a sign of permission. He scuttled over to Morzan, who pushed him behind him.  
“Dranaedr, take her,” Morzan commanded, and a reptilian tail wrapped around his mother’s stomach. She kicked and twisted, trying to get free, but to no avail.  
“Careful!” barked his father, “I want the infant unharmed.” Murtagh shrank back as a large red head broke through the trees- his father’s dragon was a magnificent, scarlet behemoth, terrifying to those who had reason to fear him. Morzan turned to him. “Murtagh, run along back to the gate. I will be there soon.” But, transfixed by the scaled head and the thrashing woman, Murtagh could not move.  
Murtagh, his father’s voice echoed in his head, get back to the castle.  
And Murtagh turned and fled as fast as his three-year-old legs could carry him. They had only made it a mile from the fortress, but he did not know this, and to him it seemed infinitely longer.  
About three-quarters of the way there, the forest receded, and he was finally allowed a glimpse of the great gate. To his horror, another dragon- smaller than Dranaedr, with black scales, but still gargantuan to his eyes- was lying along the wall above the entrance. He could see a broad-shouldered man with tan skin and black hair, wearing mail like his father, standing and talking to the guards on duty. He slowed his pace.  
When was only fifty yards from the gate, one of the guards noticed him. “Master Murtagh!” he gasped.  
The stranger turned around and smiled. “So you are Morzan’s little tyke, hmm?” Murtagh nodded mutely. “Where has your father disappeared too?”  
Swallowing, Murtagh regained his voice and replied, “He’s in the forest with mother. I think he is very angry with her. He told me to come back to the castle.”  
Still grinning, the stranger knelt and picked him up. “Well, let’s go inside, shall we? Thank you for your time, guards.”  
They bowed and muttered, “It was an honour, my King.” King? This was the King? Murtagh stared in surprise.  
“Who usually looks after you, tyke?” asked the King.  
“N-nurse.”  
“And do you know where she’d be?”  
“In the nursery, usually. But I don’t know.”  
The King nodded decisively. “We’ll go check the nursery.”

I=I

Nurse was in the nursery. The King gave him a smile, set him down, and left him with Nurse. He didn’t return, and nor did Morzan or his mother, but the next day his father came up to see him.  
“You will not be seeing your mother again,” he stated, and, still frightened and confused by the shouting match in the woods, Murtagh said nothing.  
Life went on as normal.  
Then, a couple of months later, he was sitting in the schoolroom, learning his letters, when the lesson was interrupted by screaming. His tutor glanced up at the door, but then continued as if nothing had happened. So he said nothing.  
A beaming Nurse later told him he had a new brother. He said nothing.  
Then, the next day, a no-longer-beaming Nurse said that he would have to wear black for the next week. She also said something about a funeral.  
Funerals meant death.  
Whose? Murtagh wanted to ask. Anything to break the monotony was a godsend, but, at his age, he was curious. Why should he be mourning? Who should he be mourning? The questions burnt in his head.  
He said nothing.

I=I

The day of the funeral dawned, a bright, autumnal day, with the sun shining bright overhead in a pale sky. The forest that surrounded Morzan’s castle was mostly evergreen, but the few deciduous trees about scattered their rusty leaves, to be snatched up by the fierce wind.  
Murtagh walked by his father in front of the long, dark box, born on the shoulders of six tall men- slaves or servants, he didn’t know. A procession of black-smothered staff followed the procession.  
The twenty-two-yard distance was a long walk, longer even than the mile he’d run that fateful day in the woods.  
It was an age before they reached the pyre at the northern side of the courtyard. The father and son stopped before it, and watched as the coffin was set upon it; the staff congregated in a gaggle behind them. A priest stood directly opposite the pair, on the other side of the pyre.  
“We have amassed here to witness the last rites of Selena Thaildisdaughter, consort of Morzan Ruliofsson, mother of Murtagh and Eragon Morzanssons. I, as a senior priest of the Acolytes of Helgrind, have been requested to perform them- “  
Murtagh did not listen, or at least he only pretended to. The words meant nothing to him. The rituals flashed by in so many gestures.  
“And now, the closing measures of our ceremony.” The priest turned to Morzan. “May I?”  
“It is what she would have wanted.”  
The priest directed two slaves to open the coffin, and made a neat cut over Selena’s heart, removing the slippery organ with practised ease and neatly depositing it into the offered ceramic jar.  
No, this isn’t what she would have wanted. Murtagh did not know where the thought had come from, but it seemed to fit with her actions that afternoon two months ago.  
The priest finished his gruesome extraction, and spoke a word of power that seemed to shake the ground beneath Murtagh’s feet.  
The pyre flared up in a licking, roaring fire, and through the flames he saw a macabre smile twist the priest’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first few (five) chapters of this are currently posted on ff-net, so they will be uploaded relatively quickly. After that...not so much.  
> Comments validate me and are much appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nightmares reflect, ever-so-vaguely, their reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for implied/referenced child abuse.

He was caught, captured in a howling storm that refused to release him from its grip. The wind shrieked as it fought the trees without mercy, the rain roared its displeasure, the fog that hid his surroundings from view was relentlessly silent but menacing all the same.

He stood there for a while, helpless to do anything but pit his will against the forces of nature; he could not move and they were immovable. Eventually his ears numbed to the cacophony and the other sounds made themselves known- the whispers of the dry leaves still clinging to their branches, the aching gasps of the pines as they bent so they did not break, his own shattered breathing.

Then they, too, faded, until only his pulse remained, and he desperately hoped that, at least, would not leave him.

Die in a dream and never wake up, said his nightmare, using Nurse's words but his father's voice.

He heard a scream, and he knew whose it was but fought not to dwell on it. Then a child's cries cracked the quiet the scream had left behind, and he knew whose they were too and he didn't turn around even though they came from right behind him.

The echoes of the storm, the sounds from beneath it, came back to join his heartbeat, but then the cackles of leaves became the shivers of flames devouring firewood and his pulse was not the beat of a heart but the beat of a drum and the woman's screams returned and his breathing escalated until he was screaming too and the wind and the rain screamed with him, with them, and a small hand gripped his but he didn't look down because the mist was pulling together and he could see something, sense something forming, and it was familiar, and the storm filled his lungs and he was drowning and

he woke up coughing and his voice was raw. He didn't cry. The sobs would make his throat hurt more.

I=I

Eragon was watching him, he could tell. The six-year-old was curious, would have been more so if Murtagh hadn't warned it out of him. He was constantly frightened that Morzan's next beating would knock it out of him altogether, but it seemed unquenchable. It got him into more trouble every month, but in itself it was endearing in small quantities.

He couldn't say exactly why his brother was staring at him unabashedly, but he could guess. He had probably noticed that he hadn't had enough sleep recently. Six years on and Murtagh couldn't shake his mother's death- he understood a lot more now than he had then, and the cruelty his father had shown Selena that day inspired both fear and defiance, both of which he hid. Morzan had hated her, thought of her as useless, until the day she died in childbirth.

It's not what she would have wanted.

He remembered with shocking clarity the autumn months that year- Dranaedr's whip-like tail, the King's half-warm arms, his tutor's indifferent expression, the sleeve of the priest's robes soaked a slightly different charcoal. Perhaps these small details were why he had such vivid dreams.

Murtagh finished breaking his fast and slipped, unnoticed by all but Eragon (he hoped) out of the Hall. Making a small detour to grab his Languages copybook and a bottle of ink from his rooms, he headed to the schoolroom.

The lesson was exceedingly boring, and halfway through copying down a list of Dwarven words containing the hnd phonic, his head drifted to the window looking out onto the courtyard, where Eragon was having his fourth lesson learning how to handle a small rounded shield. His trainer was building up the power of his swings, hoping to increase the strength of Eragon's arms. However, as the strikes got heavier, Eragon clearly decided that blocking was taking too much effort, and started to avoid them rather than use his buckler, which was (judging by the frustration on the trainer's face) not something he had told him to do- or, more likely, something he had told him not to do.

Murtagh almost laughed out loud as Eragon refused to abandon his strategy and caused the man more and more anguish. All that stopped, though, when Morzan strode out of one of the courtyard doors. Neither his brother nor the trainer noticed his arrival immediately, and he looked on in growing horror as his father's face became grimmer with every dodge. Having seen enough, the Rider grabbed Eragon by the upper arm, turned him about, and hit him across the face, then yanked him inside.

"Murtagh," his tutor asked pleasantly, "have you finished copying that list? We will be moving on to Arithmetic soon, and we wouldn't want to leave any work unfinished, would we now."

Murtagh grimaced and got back to scribbling down the words for instigator and unfortunate, but the scene swirled around his head as he laboured.

Later, when he had buried his head in a book about 'Elven Culture' -much of which he assumed was propaganda- the door opened and Eragon slipped in, adorned with a black eye, a ring of developing bruises around his wrist, and many more marks concealed beneath his clothes. The brothers did not often seek comfort from each other, but that was not to say they minded giving it, and the younger curled up in the elder's lap as the latter stroked his hair gently.

I=I

The pyre flickered before him like a wraith, Selena's pained cries going up in smoke, and this time when a hand reached for his he made the mistake of turning to glance at its owner, and saw a young boy with tousled hair and water leaking from a swollen purple eye, and Eragon ripped his hand back and tore into the mists, and Murtagh said nothing because he couldn't speak or move and this time he choked on his tears rather than the rain.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn something quite important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for non-graphic violence.
> 
> (I've decided to call Paolini's 'Common Tongue' 'Broddring', after the kingdom, because no language is called the 'Common Tongue'. I'm also toying with the idea of using 'Liduen Kvaedhí' (Poetic Script) as a name for the Ancient Language as well, for the same reason.)

"Now you have finally managed to grasp the perfect tense, why don't you try a simple passage. Here."

Eragon's tutor handed him a sheet of paper, with what looked to be half a Dwarven faerietale written in neat Broddring. He almost let out an exasperated groan, but caught himself in time, and started working. He'd been struggling over the new conjugations for about two and a half hours- the tutor, a much-praised scholar with a particularly spiteful streak, had insisted on absolute perfection. Murtagh had excelled in his Linguistics classes, but it seemed he hadn't inherited that talent, which only exacerbated the situation.

Around an hour later, he'd just finished a particularly complex paragraph littered with both the perfect and imperfect tense, with a couple of present participles thrown in for good measure, and plenty of adjectives, when his tutor interrupted.

"You have spelt message wrong. That is the rune for 'n', not for 'û'. This says 'The how arrived at noon', rather than 'The message arrived at noon'. Take a look at these two runes- see, the 'û' rune looks more like our capital 'R' rune, while-"

"That's not true!" exclaimed Eragon. "The 'u' rune is like that, but the 'û' rune is more similar to the 'n' rune in Hruthmundvik Dwarvish. It says so in Gerdûmnknurl, the copy in Father's library."

It was only then that he recalled he wasn't with Murtagh, that this wasn't the way to speak to his tutor, that he wasn't supposed to have read Gerdûmnknurl, and he definitely wasn't allowed in Father's library.

The tutor stared at him in shock, before almost visibly shaking himself out of it, his hand darting out to catch Eragon's wrist.

"First," he hissed, "you do not speak to me that way. Second, you should not have been in his Lordship's library. And third, you should not have been reading that book. It is very clearly beyond your skill level, you stupid child. I assume your brother sourced it for you? Murtagh," and here a vindictive smirk slithered across his face, "was far more advanced than you are when he was your age. He knew we were learningThrangvik, not Hruthmundvik as you seem to think." The smirk gaped like a canyon. "Should I drag you to your father to reveal just how dull-witted you truly are?"

His grip grew tight, too tight, and he started to twist. Eragon felt his joints locking and knew his elbow and wrist were about to break.

Elbow.

Wrist.

Break.

Jierda.

The tutor screeched in agony and cradled his arm to his chest, as Eragon tipped over with his chair as his wrist was suddenly released. The ink jar had been reduced to fragments of stained ceramic stranded in a creeping indigo stain, and the translation was no longer legible.

A servant hurtled into the room, but fled again when she caught sight of the tutor's ashen face, the marred worktop, and the eight-year-old curled amidst the wreckage of the well-worn chair he'd previously occupied. She returned bare seconds later, with Nurse in tow, who hauled him off the floor and harried him down the corridor.

Only then did it sink in that he'd just broken his tutor's wrist and elbow..

I=I

Evening approached. Murtagh was sheltered by a window seat in the Main Library, pretending to study a book on Alagaësian Geography while instead peering out of the glass pane at the sun-stained entrance courtyard, when a fast-moving shape captured his attention. It had come through the forest, probably by use of the thoroughfare that snuck between the shade-leaved trees, and as it reached the large gate, it stopped and hailed the guards. The conversation was curt, before the guards opened the gate and ushered him- for it was a him- through.

A cluster of servants swirled around him, one taking his horse to the stables, a pair bundling his luggage (luggage? Not a courier, then, as he had supposed) to the servants' area, and a further leading him to the steps, where-

Where stood his father.

The man bowed before him. Morzan turned and strode into the castle, and was followed by this mysterious arrival. They were out of his view.

The sound of padding footsteps carried to his ears, and he twisted his head to watch his little brother. "Did you know-"

"Has he arrived, then?"

Murtagh started, bewilderment plastered across his face. "Somebody has, yes. Do you know who he is?"

Misery briefly swept Eragon's features. "Murtagh-"

He stopped and took a breath.

"You know what happened six days ago."

"Yes. You managed to knock the desk into the Dwarven tutor, snapping his elbow and wrist joints. Frankly, I'm not sure how you-"

"Is that what they told you?"

Murtagh stared. "That's… that's not the truth, is it." It wasn't a question.

"No. Murtagh, I'm- I'm-"

It hit him then.

"That's your new tutor, isn't it?" He paused, then forged onwards.

"You're a sorcerer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you wanted to know, Gerdûmnknurl means Words of Stone, and is my invention- a book on the Dwarven Language and Runes.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing much of importance is said, if you would like to think that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for implied/referenced minor character deaths, also questionable poetry by yours truly.

Murtagh came upon his brother in the formal gardens belonging to the castle. He was fairly sure the only reason the gardens existed was because Morzan wouldn’t allow himself to be bested by anyone, especially in the Forsworn, and that included the landscape design section. Morzan… didn’t hate beauty, exactly, but it had to have some sort of practicality about it, which was why he spent little to no time here. It was also possibly the reason for the obsessive symmetry- despite this, the elegant fountains, smart pathways, neat hedges, arching trees, and spreading flowers (all adhering to a rigid colour scheme) had provided a much-needed and much-appreciated haven for the two brothers since Selena’s death eleven years ago.  
Eragon was in one of the more secluded spots, underneath a live oak, gently stroking the dark purple bloom of a calla lily. Murtagh could hear him muttering to himself- or perhaps not to himself, as the lily seemed to acquire a soft sheen to it. Eragon proceeded to do the same to each blossom, then stepped backwards to find the silver eyes of his brother on him. The younger only smiled in response to the other’s questioning gaze, then slipped past him and back to the castle.  
He grew up too fast, Murtagh thought, though perhaps that was for the better.  
“What are you doing out here, Master Murtagh?” inquired an older gardener with calm brown eyes. Murtagh greeted him, and also offered up a small smile.  
“Just admiring the flowers.”  
“Oh? And which is your favourite?”  
“Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine,” challenged Murtagh. Morzan was away in the city, and he was in a good mood.  
“I do like the morning glories, particularly the white moonflowers. They remind me of a past lover.”  
Stolen moments at night, hidden behind a hedge wishing for the dawn to never come, ‘Selene’ whispered low under an arch of night-blooms, wreaths of moonvine on her head and in his drawers.  
“Then again, the flowers of the laurel tree are also pretty.”  
Pretending they lived in a farietale and not reality, she declaring him the winner of the competition and of her heart like in the stories, crowns of laurel on his head and in his drawers.  
“And the antirrhinum, particularly in blue, were the favourites of a dead friend.”  
‘Pitiful’ she rumbled, ‘not true dragons at all’, petals blowing in the winds under her wings, him trying to set them on her head and she shaking them off, ‘you would look better in them, little one’.  
Murtagh looked down at the paving beneath his feet. “You have lost many.”  
“I have, though I do not like the word ‘lost’. I have not cast them by the roadside; our paths have just diverged. I am sure we will meet again soon.” The ‘if not, I am not sure what I will do’ was left unsaid but not unheard. They shared a glance. “I have answered my question, now, Master Murtagh, will you not answer yours?”  
The younger’s eyes raked across the gardens, skimming across the moonflowers and laurels and snapdragons, to alight in the calla lily bush.  
Later that night, alone in his room, returned from a sparring session with his tutor to find a box on his bed, the dark wood smooth and polished, the silver clasps oiled. Inside, a dark purple blossom on black velvet, next to a scroll tied with black ribbon. A yearly tradition falling a few days after Eragon’s birthday. The writing on the scroll says something- it is not a memory, only Murtagh had any of those, Eragon was too young- but it is beautiful nonetheless.  
Calla lily, it says,  
Deep as a chasm  
There is no escape from the dark depths of loss  
Or the ache of emptiness  
But if I am free to remain  
Trapped in your embrace  
Soft, I think  
I think and never know  
(Like I will never know you  
But always think of your smile)  
Then why would I want liberty?  
Freedom is endless possibilities  
But with you there is only safety  
Warmth  
Love  
In absence  
Viewed in the cold light of the moon  
I imagine where there is nothing to be had  
My rogue thoughts turned to memory  
Finding comfort where there is none  
Deep as a chasm  
In absence  
Calla lily  
And it is true, for a mother should be there to dry their tears and soothe their pain, but she was always gone. She tried to leave and she succeeded, succeeded in escape, and Murtagh wants to escape as well but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t )  
No, for all its beauty, shimmering where Eragon’s magic had left its signature, Murtagh could never love the calla lily.  
He thought back to the few walks he and Eragon had been allowed on, the path winding through the forest, revealing the jewels of nature buried deep in the Spine. His memory gaze flicked over the foxgloves, the bluebells, the lavender-  
He smiled.  
“The rose,” he told the brown-eyed gardener. “Somethings draws me to it, I don’t know what. Maybe it is its thorns.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate my poetry. It almost killed me to post this.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn the importance of perseverance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for implied/referenced minor character death, lightly implied/referenced suicidal ideation, implied/referenced torture.

“Concentrate, Morzansson.”  
Talons digging into stone walls, ripping chunks of mortar away-  
“Concentrate, Morzansson.”  
Dust cascading from the holes which pitted the rampart-  
“There is no strength here! Concentrate, Morzansson, do I have to tell you again?”  
The wall crumbling and turning to feathers before the assault, a blinding pain ripping into his head and-  
Eragon’s eyes flew open as the burningrippingslashing presence left his mind, taking with it the pain and the panic which had gripped it as tight as the eagle’s claws.  
“Pathetic,” growled his tutor, “you improve only slowly. Do we not practise an hour a day? Where is this hour going? If you were ever to be captured, your secrets would be spilt within minutes!”  
The eleven-year-old winced, both at the thought and the reminder of what he was training for.  
“The mind is your last sanctuary, your last safe place, your last den of secrets. When you relinquish your hold as you just did, you relinquish your life- or at least, any value your life ever had. There are two rules in the Black Hand; the first is ‘never be taken alive’, and the second ‘if you are taken alive, never give up your information’. Break the second one and, if the Varden or the elves do not kill you, the Empire will.” The tutor paused for breath, nose and mouth distorted by the mix of grin and grimace on his face. “My brother tells me you make satisfactory progress on your understanding of magic, and your application of the language.” Eragon almost gasped at the never-heard praise, but remembered himself in time. “This, however, should leave you more time to practise the art of mental combat. Until you can hold your own against myself for at least an hour, you shall have no other lessons, to concentrate on this most important of subjects. Am I understood?  
He nodded sharply, already dreading it.

I=I

The lilies had always been his favourites. They seemed to him to be a symbol of comfort, even in the dark times, a place to hide from your fears.  
He took just one from the bush. It was the best one, the one he’d been singing to ever since the bud started to split.  
He wasn’t supposed to know how to sing to the plants. Only elves did that. But nobody had ever thought to inform Morzan that he had access to his library, even after his slip up three years ago. So he’d taken a book out, a book from the dustiest shelves furthest from the windows, looking for secrets. He’d always been looking for secrets, in a world where knowledge was power. If he had enough secrets, he’d be able to leave, he had thought. Escape had always been his goal, their goal, but he was starting to realise that only Murtagh had ever really known how to escape. Selena had taken the only way out of the castle, and it wasn’t through the forest.  
He would never give in, he swore to himself, never give in to Death, even if his mother had. Murtagh would never leave him, he knew it, and so he’d never leave him. Fair was fair, even in a land without justice.  
In the absence of death, then, he chose knowledge. If he had enough knowledge, enough secrets, he might survive long enough to make a mark.  
So he went looking for secrets in the library. He hadn’t found any dark or dangerous yet, but he had found some, and they were his secrets now.  
He sung to the calla lilies, and when Selena’s deathday came around again, he picked one and wrote down what it meant.  
Mother had left him.  
Murtagh had never and would never.  
Right?

I=I

The man with the golden voice sat in a small room. In the room were his three greatest treasures.  
He looked at them, considered them.  
“It runs in the blood,” murmured Galbatorix. Morzan said nothing.  
The king looked up. “Your sons,” he started, “the youngest is a magician, no?”  
Morzan nodded, still saying nothing.  
“And the oldest?”  
“Has shown no aptitude for it, even in magic-conditioning environments.”  
“You have tried everything?”  
“Everything.”  
Galbatorix’s mind surged forward, demanding the memories, and yes, Morzan had tried everything he could have. He smiled, and went back to considering the brightly coloured treasures.  
“It runs in the blood, wouldn’t you say? Your grandfather, and his uncle, and you, all Dragon Riders.”  
He sat in silence for a minute more, or an hour, or half a day, he couldn’t bring himself to care.  
The conclusion was obvious to him.  
“He has a year more. In twelve months, I will bring him these to try. If nothing happens, well, since he was three years old, the blödhkynn have been asking for him, heaven knows why. There, he will either be useful or out of the way.”  
Morzan nodded again, and Galbatorix smiled as his eyes caressed the three eggs.

I=I

“As a sparrow before an eagle,” mocked his tutor. “Fast, but not fast enough. Your feathers are too soft. You are too small to be significant.”  
He had to be better.  
He almost didn’t want to be, but there was no room for spite when the object of your hate could rip you apart with a word.  
If only mental combat came as easily to him as magical.  
But then, they were the same, weren’t they? They were built on the same concepts, they came from the same nature.  
He remembered the first time he did magic, the hatred he felt towards his teacher, the pain and the fear of pain.  
He had been so scared, yet this tutor scared him more.  
Until he didn’t.  
Eragon knew he didn’t have to be scared anymore, because he was ready, and the waves of his mind reared up to meet the storm of his tutor’s.  
It was a good thing that his tutor was too distracted by the assault to notice Eragon’s eyes flashing sapphire blue.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a book is read.

,

_The books on the shelves whisper to him. They tell him their secrets, and he tells them his._

_‘_

Eragon- isn’t how he should be. Murtagh can feel it. There’s something hanging in the air, echoes of laughter, the last ashes of happiness, and they belong to Eragon but they… don’t.

Murtagh has never had magic, probably never will, and if it meant more of these feelings, he’s not sure if he wants it or not (it doesn’t matter anyway). He hates it but he craves it.

A lot like power. He’s never been in control, and sometimes he wishes he was, had been (if the laughter is Eragon’s, well, he still can’t hear his).

,

_He runs his finger gently across their spines, and they edge towards his grasp, but he never takes them. He’s not looking for these ones, not now._

_‘_

Eragon is not a normal twelve-year-old. A little wild, not in the usual ways. He’s not rough around the edges, he’s sharp, a poisoned knife hiding in a plain sheath. His teachers must think they have corrupted him fully, that he is firmly within the hand of the King. They spent so much time on him. Murtagh isn’t so sure.

Eragon has never fully trusted anybody, not since he found the knife in his brother’s drawer and the half-faded scars on his upper arms (they’re gone now. Morzan saw them, and his shame was perhaps even greater than Murtagh’s). Murtagh can’t remember when the need to escape turned into self-hate, and it doesn’t really matter anymore. What matters is it did, and he did, and Eragon found out. _You promised me,_ said his mouth, but his eyes just asked _Why?_.

He looked for an answer but he couldn’t find one.

,

_When he does find it, it’s stored well away from the sun so the pages don’t fade. It’s less cobwebbed than its neighbours, but still prompts cascades of dust._

_‘_

Eragon wasn’t meant to grow up like this, Murtagh realises. He wasn’t supposed to be miserable. He wasn’t supposed to keep secrets.

Eragon is the least like Morzan of the brothers, he thinks. But there’s still something of him in there. The poison coating the blade.  His need for revenge- his need for justice, almost. Eragon wants balance, he wants order, he wants to make sure like goes for like. An eye for an eye. The price of his blood is that of others, and if they don’t pay up then he’ll take it from them, measure it out neatly then take his exit while the cut’s still bleeding.

It’s only fair.

,

_He opens the book and flicks through it, first alighting on a sketch of an androgynous figure with their head thrown back in laughter. A few pages on is another figure of similar build, with long crimson hair and wrapped in black armour. There are other drawings- a great scarlet-feathered bird, a sort of huge bat with leathery wings, a shadowed man with a large beak for a mouth and a black cape-like coat._

_The final picture was of a huge, scaled, winged creature roaring fire. This one, he had seen in real life._

_A dragon._

_Next to it is a smaller, but no less detailed, sketch of a gem-like stone with creeping veins and a polished surface._

_Its egg._

_‘_

Murtagh was sitting by the library window again when they came. A large entourage of horses with smooth coats and gleaming bridles, their riders decked out in shimmering half-armour. They surrounded an inky blue-black carriage, drawn by a magnificent white stallion, who looked more like a warhorse than anything else.

Once the carriage had drawn up to the front of the castle, two royal guards stepped out, each carting a beautifully ornate stone chest. They were followed by a man known all too well to him, who carried a third. The last person to descend was an imposing figure Murtagh remembered (how could he not?) from a fiery autumn day in his childhood.

The quartet were accompanied to the gates by an exultant roar from the colossal crimson dragon clutching a rooftop. Murtagh could not make out the expressions of the four, but if he could, he would have seen a rare smile brush the lips of his father. They strode inside the plain, practical doors of Morzan’s abode.

Murtagh wished he had his brother beside him.

It was an hour ‘til dinner. Murtagh sat by the window and waited, watched as three servants, each lugging one of the chests, scuttled over to a small storeroom, usually innocuous in its abandonment, but now conspicuous in that it was guarded by two soldiers with flames on their chest.

The bell rang, and Murtagh descended to the hall.

Many were drunk, and many were asleep, an hour into dinner. The few that were not had either left or were causing their own chaos, except the two at the head of the hall, who were conversing in low tones. Occasionally, one would glance at him, then return his attention to the other.

When Murtagh left, just a few minutes later, they both turned to look at him, then resumed their muttering.

 

I=I

 

It was a slow, quiet walk through a soft darkness to the storeroom. The guards, trusting in the fear of the servants, had indulged in a glass of something strong, and their reduced awareness lent itself perfectly to Murtagh’s – not mission, but an adventure, of a sort.

He stood in the shadows, waiting. One guard’s head drooped; the other’s vacant stare did not acknowledge him as he stepped cautiously forwards, nor as he approached the door. The door swung open, and he stepped inside. The room, barely lit, had the air of a sunset, a dim, burnt orange. Upon a shelf at the back were the three chests, even more detailed closer up. Though they looked heavy, sturdy, the engravings were almost delicate.

His hand brushed the lock of the one on the right. To his surprise, a pinching pain caressed him, and a moment later the lid swung open with a metallic click, to match the taste in his mouth as he sucked the pricked finger.

A faint, rose-red glow shone from within the chest. Murtagh reached inside and carefully retrieved the stone from within, cradling it to his chest in half-shocked awe. Something inside- _called_ to him. A dragon’s egg.

“Do not move; do not speak; do not do anything,” came a voice from behind him, as cold touched his neck. He clenched his fists hard, and clutched the egg harder, and, ignoring the instructions, obeyed the compulsion to turn.

A harshly beautiful face greeted him, emerald eyes narrowed in hostility. Murtagh immediately noticed the well-crafted sword, the muscled arms, the pointed ears. An elf, sent here to capture the eggs. He scrambled for words in the Liduen Kvaedhí. “ _My name is Murtagh; I mean you no harm._ ”

“ _How can I trust you?”_

“ _We cannot lie in this language.”_

_“But the truth can be twisted.”_

A weighted silence.

_“You know what I have come here for.”_

He nodded.

“ _I cannot risk anyone knowing I have been here until morning. Perhaps you really mean me no harm; but I cannot trust you. You understand, I must kill you.”_

 _“Or-“_ Murtagh hesitated for a split second, then rushed onwards. “ _Or- you could take me with you.”_

The elf’s eyes briefly widened. _“Why?”_

_“I hate the empire. I have been trapped here my entire life. This is the only option for escape I have left.”_

The elf considered it.

“ _I have information on the forces the Empire has at its disposal. I would tell you everything.”_

After a few moments, the sword was lowered and the elf grabbed the chest from the middle, shaking her head as she did so. “I am making a huge mistake.” Turning to the door, she slipped out, indicating that he should follow her. He put the egg back in the chest, and crept after her. A rope hung off the fortress wall standing some metres away. The elf threw her own chest over the wall, then reached behind her for his. She turned back to get the final one, only for one of the half-drunk guards to see her and bellow.

The pair sprinted back to the rope.

As they climbed the wall, Murtagh’s head filled with worries, but the blood flowing through him was spreading a wary excitement.

He was going to be free.

They reached the top of the wall. The elf vaulted over, Murtagh copying her, stumbling as he landed, glad the drop was not as large as it had always seemed. A white stallion waited, and the chests were swept up as they ran to him, scrambling up his back. As soon as he was on, the elf urged her charger into action.

Leaves, branches whipped past them, so that Murtagh couldn’t even hear his own breath. It was raining, he noticed, gasping at the cold water trickling down his face.

It mixed with tears of joy and sorrow. He was free- and Eragon was not.

 

I=I

 

_“Eragon,” called Morzan, “come down.”_

_He left the library, descended the stairs, walked out into the courtyard. Neither his stride nor his face belied the fear inside._

_The carriage door was open, his tutors, identical in their blank expressions inside._

_Eragon spared one glance to the window where he knew his brother sat. Murtagh’s birthday was in a week, he knew._

_He would not be there to celebrate it._

_The door closed, and a Twin knocked on the roof. The carriage moved forward, on the path to Urû’baen._

_On the path to danger, and magic, and intrigue, and the Black Hand._


End file.
